A Little Domestic
by Mythire
Summary: John and Mrs. Hudson share a blanket while watching crap telly and Sherlock feels left out. Prompt by zuignappen.


A Little Domestic

"Yes, well, try a little harder next time, Sherlock."

Sherlock snapped, "Yes, of course Detective Inspector. Next time you want the killer caught quickly, I'll take the short cut though Candy Cane Lane and ask him nicely! If you had just taken my information at point blank we would have been saved the trouble cleaning up another bloody mess."

"You must be tired, Sherlock, if you didn't pick up my sarcasm." Lestrade sighed through the phone. "Look, I have to get the paperwork done for this case and it's going to be a bloody nightmare, so goodnight, Sherlock. And see that John gets his rest too. He looked knackered when he left here."

There was a click on the line and Sherlock set the phone on the table next to his microscope. He spared a look at his flat mate, who was currently buried in a blanket on the couch with the telly on.

Lestrade was right about one thing. John was exhausted. The case they had just come off of had been rather dull but tedious. Why Lestrade insisted on having the blue spoon to solve the murder investigation baffled Sherlock, considering that he was spot on about the matter. So they had gone out of their way to find the bloody thing, and what should have only taken eight minutes had turned into three days. Three days to find a spoon! It was ridiculous, but they eventually found it on the murderer himself. John had never once complained about running through the streets, jumping off rooftops, or breaking and entering and Sherlock certainly wouldn't waste his deducing skills on comfort at the time, but now he could see that the days had taken a toll on his friend.

Sherlock kept flicking his eyes over at John, noting the way he had the blanket clutched around himself, the bags under his eyes, and the droop in his shoulders that would shiver occasionally. His lips tightened and he turned away from his experiment to order John to bed. Just because _he_ could go days without sleep didn't mean that John could. He was interrupted though when Mrs. Hudson entered the room with a laden tray in her hands.

"Well, now boys, I made some tea and biscuits for you both." She set the tray in front John and began pouring a cuppa for him. "Look at you, John, all shivering. It's not decent, that blanket. Here, take your tea and I'll get a better fleece for you dear. Sherlock if you want your tea, you'll have to get it yourself, otherwise it'll go cold on you."

"Bless you, Mrs. Hudson," John said fervently as he took the tea she handed him. "Another blanket would be lovely."

She nodded with a smile and left in search for a better comforter. Sherlock watched as John sipped his tea and noticed that his shivering went down, but did not stop completely. The wince that crossed John's face when he moved his right shoulder was not lost on Sherlock either. Soon Mrs. Hudson came back with a thick blue blanket cradled in her arms.

"Here you go, dear. Found it in the cubby. Let's just get this on you then…oh! That's one of my favorite shows there John. Scoot over and let me have some of the blanket. You look like you could some of the extra warmth anyhow. Did the tea not warm you up?"

Sherlock spared a small smile as John blushed under Mrs. Hudson's motherly affections. He turned back to his experiment and contented himself to listening to his fellow companions.

"The tea was fine, Mrs. Hudson. Just fine. Warmed me up quite well."

"If you say so, dear. Oh would you look at that! That Margie is quite the vixen isn't she. When the husband and I were in Ireland a ways back, there was this one woman who would…"

Sherlock listened for a while to the one-sided conversation, John humming and hmming at the right times with a smile on his face, still shivering slightly, and Mrs. Hudson going on about the red headed nymph who tried to steal her husband. They soon went back to watching the crap telly, and Sherlock found it was hard for him to concentrate on his experiment. He kept glancing back to John and Mrs. Hudson, kept fidgeting in his seat when he saw how comfortable they were. And he _was _a bit chilly.

Standing up abruptly he strode across the room, noting how John and Mrs. Hudson jumped at his sudden movement.

"Sherlock? What's the matter? Do you—bloody hell, Sherlock! What do you think you're doing?"

Sherlock had ripped the blanket from John and Mrs. Hudson, and was in the process of wiggling into the small space in between them.

"It is _cold_, John. Surely you can deduce that much." Sherlock said loftily as he settled the blanket over them. Only after much tugging and tucking was he satisfied enough to sink down to his nose in the blankets. "Now do shut up, Margie is about to be revealed as the killer, though it's impossible considering the creases in her dress. Why can't they see that?"

John rolled his eyes and shook his head before settling himself comfortably next to Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson tucked her arm into Sherlock's and leaned into him until her head was resting on his shoulder. Sherlock felt satisfaction when he felt John's shivering stop at last, and victory when John started to nod off. Mrs. Hudson was soon giving Sherlock the run down on what he missed, not that he missed anything, but for once he didn't feel the need to stop her and point it out.

Turned out, Margie wasn't the killer after all.


End file.
